


Itch in my throat

by Ribes



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: A (bigger) lil bit of angst, Larry is a dick, M/M, Talking what's talking, They weirdly don't do drugs in here, Vegas Time, a lil bit of fluff, homophobic slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 07:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14397312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribes/pseuds/Ribes
Summary: He can see, crystal clear, how Theo's eyes blink too quickly, eyelashes suddenly shaking, and his hand slides down Boris' back to just lay on the mattress, fingers contracted on the sheets. There is one hand that lingers on the other boy's arm, though, just a few moments more; Boris' eyes move in that direction, his thigh suddenly keeping a distance from Theo's leg.They don't feel comfortable around each other anymore.Or: Popchyk is always around Boris and Theo and knows them better than they know each other.





	Itch in my throat

**Author's Note:**

> My second work about Theo and Boris, always revolving on angst because these kids aren't able to be fucking happy. I'm so sorry if this breaks your heart - it broke mine too.  
> We all love Popchyk though.

  
_Should I be quiet?  Come on, be silent_  
_You know I'm trying, so don't say nothing._  
_I've got an itch in my throat, I don't know which way to go._  
_Hush, baby, don't you say another word:_  
_Hush, baby, when you do, I just get hurt._  
 

They’re laying on the undone, tousled bed, sun hitting their bare backs and shoulders, sometimes their chests if they turn around as they tickle each other too much; the striped stolen clock has its hands pointed to 8 pm, but it could be frozen since hours, as far as they know – as far as they care. Open schoolbooks are scattered through the floor, empty papers slipped under the bed or crumbled in the corners; an half empty bottle of vodka dangerously swaying on the edge of the white bedtable on which are piled up two or three adult-content magazines they’ve _had_ to steal, because apparently Boris wearing sunglasses and a hood on his head couldn’t convince the supermarket cashier they weren’t minors. Popchyk is sleeping, curled up on the lower side of the bed, and even when their playing gets more agitated, too pushy, legs kicking and hands punching around, fists pressing against Boris’s ribcage and him coughing in faked anger – they manage to let him be.  
  
Sometimes he spies them, opening one eye, curious look that lingers on this pair of gaunt teenage boys, their skin half red burnt and half freckled like crazy. It must be so strange and yet so familiar, from his tiny perspective: how they sometimes reach to pet him on the head or on the back, him recognizing the presence of them by how their touch feels and their voices chew words, sometimes very different from each other.  
  
« _Jesteś najlepszym synem, jaki mogliśmy mieć_.»  
  
«What the fuck did I say? _Angliyskiy_.»  
  
« _Zamknij się kurwa_. I told Snaps he’s a very good boy.»  
  
And then they come back to fighting − which is not even remotely violent, even if Boris' fingers scratch Theo's cheek too hard and a red stripe appears on his body; it almost feels like a ritual they perform on each other, a way to leave their mark when the sun is still up and their over-excited widened eyes meet in the clash. Popchyk can feel it, probably, the way they're suddenly connected and worlwide insults are spitted out of their mouths, even though they're thinking something really different.  
  
Fucker. _Dupek_. Jerk. _Kretyn._ Dumb piece of shit. _Chertovski suka_. − Bursting out laughing.  
  
They've drunk too much during dinner, which consists of overcooked pasta, canned meat and fridge-frozen alcohol; by the time they stepped on the stairs they were already limping, phisically bickering as an excuse to touch each other. Popchyk knows, 'cause he followed them, obviously, from his own kitchen chair where every afternoon he chews some food he probably isn't supposed to be eating, to Theo's room, which smells like Boris too anyways, so it's not really just Theo's. It's a complex mixture of scents, things that by now have become really close to the abstract definition of _home_ − sweat and tobacco, mostly, but sometimes the air hosts mint, chocolate, paprika smell, and how books feel when Popchyk throws his nose inside their pages. The greyish dirt that accumulates on their feet soles, after hours of walking around without shoes or socks on, weirdly feels like home too.  
  
«We should go to eat sushi this evening,» proposes Boris after missing one of Theo's scrapes, his fingers hitting the matress instead. He props himself on his elbow, so he can stand above Theo's restless figure and keep the boy from pushing him off the bed. «I never did. Interesting people, those in Japan. Worth giving money to, even.»  
  
«I don't give the slightest fuck about Japan,» Theo angrily spits out, grabbing Boris' arm in a clumsy attempt to drag him down, to which Boris simply grins in satisfaction, because it doesn't work. He's winning. _Winning what?_ «And sushi sucks. It's raw fish, how can you like that shit? Do you realize you're digesting fish corpses?»  
  
«You sound like a vegetarian now, Potter.» Somehow Boris manages to clutch both his fists on Theo's shoulders and anchor him stuck on the bed surface, dark and tangled hair twirling upon the other boy's eyelids, and he doesn't seem willing to give his place up. They stare at each other and suddenly they're creating an invisible steel barrier around their two bodies: neither of them is going to give up any time sooner − it's part of their game, Popchyk probably thinks, staring contests that last minutes and stretch into, possibly, decades: the strongest way they're able to communicate is through eyes, tartar lineaments placing themselves in parallel line with tired and angry irises. Yes, Theo is definitely the madder between them − mad when he comes home with a frown and a sharp voice − mad when he shouts to Popchyk to shut the fuck up and eat the goddamn chicken ( _but I want biscuits,_ Popper would reply, except he can't). Mad when Xandra walks in front of him and he looks like he's about to slap her face − mad when he starts screaming and kicking in the middle of the night, and Boris has to hold him still, otherwise he'll fall off the bed.  
  
Sometimes, Popchyk gets scared. Scared that he'll hurt them - that he'll hurt himself.  
  
«You could've called me _shallukha_ and it would've worked out just fine,» Theo groans, shifting his right leg in a more comfortable position, almost touching Boris' left thigh; it always starts this way, bodies getting ready to be inextricably tangled up. «But you had to call me a fucking vegetarian. Me, who eats meat every single day, a _vegetarian_.»  
  
«Is _shlyukha,_ » Boris corrects him, raising his left eyebrow. Theo huffs and makes another attempt to shake him off his body, gain advantage again, but the way his fingers curl way too softly on the other boy's green shirt reveal how weak his will really is. He's simply pouting now. «You want to swear in Russian, you do it properly, yes?»  
  
«Not my fault if your teaching is shitty.»   
  
Boris' reply is lowering his face and biting − gently, but not too much − Theo's exposed collarbone, sniggering against his skin as the boy suddenly jolts and his breath takes a long pause. Three, five seconds. Then he starts laughing. «What the _fuck_ are you doing?»  It happens way too often, both of them pretending the same things haven't happened many times before, twice in the same week, in the last six days. At least verbally they seem to be following a script, a little game they set that could be called " _let's see who surrenders first_ ", as far as Popchyk knows. It's been going on for months and it'll go on for a really long time. They can't completely lie, though − because by now Boris perfectly knows Theo's most sensible spots, and that's a sort of unspoken knowledge that slips out of him almost gladly.  
  
His greyish teeth are parting to playfully catch that particular skin place again, Theo not doing anything in particular to stop him, giggling maybe a little too much for his mind to be completely clear − when they hear a noise. Multiple noises, actually; in the lower floor, someone angrily slamming the door, intense footsteps around the living room and the kitchen, invested voices that one second are whispering, the other almost shouting. It's not difficult to identify Theo's father and Xandra in those rumors; even if Popchyk is about to fall asleep − running around and barking all day can be exhausting even for the most active dog − his ears straighten up when he recognizes the source of it all. Those voices bring unease and an hostile air, usually, and that's certainly why Theo's body freezes, tenses, is suddenly stone under Boris' touch. He's a statue now, eyes widening in an expression of both anger and agitation; and even Boris slowly half-closes his mouth, his hot smoky breath simply hitting the other boy's neck.  
  
Neither of them is moving, but they must be so very aware of how much pressed against each other their bodies are in this moment. In the motionless silence, trying to catch the upset and rough words that stopped their game − their ritual − their odd communication, Popchyk can smell and perceive a dark tension floating between them. Boris slightly turns his face, so that he's staring at him, his eyes actually wandering somewhere else, while Theo just contemplates the ceiling, warm hands still on Boris' back.  
  
It's not that they're doing something bad. It feels more like the heavy awareness of the direction they would've taken, if Theo's 'parents' hadn't decided to come home earlier than most evenings.  
  
_They wouldn't be doing anything bad even in that case_ , Popchyk would think. But he's a dog. It's not his place to think about these things.  
  
«I told you we shouldn't have added them in the list in the first place.» The voices have become more discernible now,  not as clear as they would be if spoken from the other side of the wall, but maybe it is better this way - perhaps things will work out better if they blend with each other, not completely understandable; maybe if this is the case both the boys will stop listening and shrug it off as nothing serious. Popchyk isn't sure Boris would go back to biting Theo's neck, though – not with Larry and Xandra wandering around the lower floor. He's not sure why, but they always get that close only when no one is around the house, when they can pretend it's all a drunk dream. «How much money have we lost? Four hundred, five hundred?» The noise of drawers opening, hands scrambling through papers; one of them impatiently hitting the floor multiple times with their foot. «Crap, _eight_?»  
  
«Yes. No, _I_ told _you_ they weren't worth the slightest trust. You can keep lying to yourself and pretend I didn't warn you in the first place. Maybe work out a little story to tell the police men if they decide to snitch on us.»  
  
«They’re faggots, Xandra, Jesus. Fairies like those don’t have the guts to report us, or anyone else for the matter. They live to steal coins from other people’s pockets. I would've preferred to be robbed by actual criminals.»  
  
Popchyk can capture this moment almost in slow motion, as if it was a film the three of them were watching on TV, sitting on the sofa with their legs intertwined, heads dangling on each other's shoulders, too tired to actually pay attention, frames sliding away like river water. He can see, crystal clear, how Theo's eyes blink too quickly, eyelashes suddenly shaking, and his hand slides down Boris' back to just lay on the mattress, fingers contracted on the sheets. There is one hand that lingers on the other boy's arm, though, just a few moments more; Boris' eyes move in that direction, his thigh suddenly keeping a distance from Theo's leg.  
  
They don't feel comfortable around each other anymore.  
  
«Don't be a cunt. If they're into dick it's their business.»  
  
«They're my _clients_ , Xan. It _is_ my business if a fag walks around my house and buys my stuff, huh? And then makes deals with it – without me knowing? I would tear their faces to pieces if I had them right here, right now. Make sure they never know how to walk again. _Fuck_.»  
  
They start discussing other arguments afterwards. If they can get the money back, at what cost. If they can somehow snitch on the couple without getting personally involved with the police, if they can take personal revenge without getting too extreme. Blackmails, extortions. On the upper floor, all three of them have stopped listening; Popchyk could, but he's too involved in observing what's happening a couple inches away from him. Only a minute passes and they're already separated, laying on opposites sides of the bed: Theo rolls away sharply, almost shaking Boris off him as he gets rid of his touch and stops at the very edge of the mattress, staring intently at the white left wall. There are four, five posters hung on it, music and movie stuff they've bought in the past months, because the room looked too empty with blank walls, because it was their private space to decorate − but right now Theo's looking right through them, as if he's trying to capture something on the other side.  
  
Boris hasn't moved an inch from the place he was in before. Turning his chest in Theo's direction, he observes him deep in thought, a frown appearing between his eyebrows. His arm slightly moves, perhaps in an attempt to reach him, but suddenly touching isn't permitted anymore. Ten minutes before it was as natural as breathing, a way to know each other more than talking ever could; Boris' pressure on Theo's body was the same as a five-hours night conversation. Right now, though, touching is suddenly forbidden; the wall they've built isn't around them anymore. It's _between_ them.  
  
They have no other option but to return to the common way of communicating. The one they despise so much. Because it means weakness and exposure. Because it's dangerous.  
  
«Theo.»  
  
His voice is so weak and faint that, if Theo were only a few inches farther, he wouldn't have heard it − but he does. One simple name, vanished in the silence in less than a second, and yet Boris can clearly see his muscles suddenly contracting, shoulders getting stiff and rigid. Then − probably because he's scared by the possibility of Boris speaking again, breaking the rules again − he turns his body in the other boy's direction, and his eyes are finally visible now. But they refuse to raise and communicate: simple dark-coloured objects, unable to spit out words, not very different from his mouth now.  
  
Popchyk knows that Boris hates when Theo becomes like this. Hates when he closes himself in his own invisible cage and locks other people out, rejects any kind of help: that's what happens some nights, when he's finished all of his tears and his throat has grown hoarse out of screams, so he just drowns in his own misery and stops existing, for a while. Leaving Boris scared, cold, and alone.  
  
«Theo,» he repeats, because there's nothing else he can really do.  
  
And Theo finally looks up. Slowly, carefully, he manages to be brave, just for once. As Boris stares at him, and Theo stares back, both their mouths shut and their bodies far from each other, something happens; a conversation. It's not made of words, laughs and songs. And it's not even made of punches and kicks, and drunk kisses in any body place except their face. This conversation is made of thoughts, mostly; the seconds of looking _into_ each other, digging into their souls until blood and mud come out, and there is nothing left to draw. Sometimes one of them bats his eyelashes, and it's a moment of pause, of reflection, before they come back to talking again.  
  
Popchyk stares at them as well, ears now low and little lively black eyes, without fully understanding the whole mechanism of it. Nor what their conversation is truly about. Is it something sweet and comforting, like immersing supermarket strawberries into vodka and sneering at each other as they eat them? Like their hands touching and linking together as they sleep, half unconscious? Like sharing the same cigarette sitting on the kitchen counter, their lips getting in touch with the same object and thus with each other?  
  
Human love is a very complicated thing, Popchyk would think. Stratified and complex, never fully understood, sometimes so scary and feared. Because of − what? Because it would mean exposing one's own wounds and asking the other person to heal them? _Bullshit_ , that's the word Popchyk would say if he could. Every creature should be scared of basic things, such as hunger, and death, and being homeless; but scared of _love_? Rules between the humans make no sense. There shouldn't be such a thing as being scared of love, not when it is the only thing that gives your life other purpose than just surviving. Sharing his months with Boris and Theo has made Popchyk feel loved, because even if sometimes they're harsh − with him and with each other −  they feed him almost every day, let him sleep in their bed, cuddle him and call him cute names, and all three of them have long walks together; in the playground they sit on the swings, smoke leaving their mouths as they laugh, and Popchyk runs around, barking, feeling so free he could die in that very moment and be completely happy.  
  
Yet they don't feel that. They're humans, and they have rules to follow; some are set by default, some by themselves, and they cannot be broken, because it would not be okay. _Wrong,_ even. Perhaps that's really what they're telling each other right now, cheeks laying on the pillow, breath coming slow out of their lips; _it is wrong. It cannot be done._ They pretend to be able to walk around as they like, wear any kind of clothes and eat the food they prefer, but truth is they're not less chained than a shelter dog, unable to break out.  
  
All that Popchyk knows is that at some point the conversation ends. Realistically, it hasn't been more than a minute since Theo has raised his eyes, even if they could've discussed the history of the whole universe in the meanwhile; this is the moment where they decide to stop communicating, though. Perhaps they've told each other what they wanted to say; or maybe they simply _can't_ stare at each other anymore, just like they can't speak out loud, like they do all the time about other lighter subjects.  
  
Theo's the one to break it up: his eyes suddenly move in the opposite direction as he sits up and rummages in his pockets, to find a crumpled cigarette, which he lights up as if he suddenly doesn't care anymore. As if nothing happened. «We could try to eat italian food tonight. I don't know, some decent pizza.»  
  
Popchyk almost espects Boris to slap him. To bring him back to the things he's told him in this minute, to stop playing this game, because it isn't fun anymore. But Boris doesn't bat an eyelid: he shrugs, reaches out to the half empty vodka bottle, and takes his hair off his face. «Yes, okay. No sushi. You really are a fucking _mùdak_ , though.»  
  
«If you want to eat raw food, go fish it from the sea.»  
  
« _This is a fucking desert_.»  
  
As if nothing truly happened.


End file.
